Tragic Death of J. Nilas Wolf of Bourbon, 1926

Tragic Death of J. Nilas Wolf of Bourbon, 1926

by | May 20, 2026 | Bourbon, Visitor Stories & Oral Histories

Cars along downtown Plymouth, IN in the 1930s.

This article is from about 100 years ago from the Bourbon News Mirror on June 3, 1926. It can be found in our vast collection of microfilms from various newspapers in Marshall County. It has been edited lightly for clarity.

“TRAGIC DEATH OF J. NILAS WOLF FALLS FROM RUNNING BOARD OF AUTO AND SUSTAINS THE FATAL INJURY

Nilas Wolf is dead!

Death came to him Tuesday afternoon, about 4:45, following a fall from an auto. He never regained consciousness from the time he fell, which was about eleven o’clock a.m., until he died.

His death was one of the greatest shocks the community has had in a long time, and the bereaved family and innumerable friends of the deceased are dazed even yet.

The accident happened as follows:

Chauncey Berkey and Mr. Wolf had the same kind of cars. Both were new. Mr. Berkey came into town Tuesday morning and on seeing Mr. Wolf asked him if his car had a peculiar click as it ran. Mr. Wolf replied that it did not. Mr. Berkey explained to him what he had noticed about his car for a few days whereupon Mr. Wolf said he would get in the car and ride a piece to see if he could detect it. They went east on Center Street. When about the Walter Senour home, Mr. Wolf told him he heard it and asked that Mr. Berkey stop and he would get on the running board, with the left side of the hood open and ride there to see if he could find just where the trouble was. Mr. Berkey drove about 12 to 14 miles per hour. When near the Orville Martin home, Mr. Wolf raised up and called “Oh,” or “Woah,” Mr. Berkey did not know, and before the car could stop, he had fallen off. The car did not hit him and was stopped within about thirty feet. Mr. Berkey rushed back to Mr. Wolf, to find him unconscious and with blood flowing from a small wound in his head and some from his mouth. He began calling for help and Orville Martin heard it, at the same time his little daughter, Frances, was telling her father she had seen a man fall off the car. It was Mr. Wolf she saw. Mr. Martin rushed out, Herbert Sickman came, too, and a young man and lady going by stopped and the limp body of Mr. Wolf was taken into the Martin home where Dr. Graham and Dr. Marshall were called. Indications were that a fracture of the skull had taken place, as well as a concussion of the brain, and he never regained consciousness.

Just what was the real cause of the fall never will be known. Some thought he had touched a wire of the machine and got shocked so that he fell: others believed he had been attacked with a dizzy spell and fell, though he had not complained of this to his wife. But Frank Newcomb, partner of Mr. Wolf. In the auto business, stated to us that Mr. Wolf had not been feeling well for a few days and had complained of some slight dizzy spells at times. Mr. Wolf was in this office the night before and we visited with him quite a little while, but he did not complain, though we suspicioned by his conversation he was not feeling as well as usual.

Where Mr. Wolf fell from the car there is much coarse gravel and the wound in the back of the head indicated a stone had caused it. His glasses were found later on, devoid of the glasses, only the frame remaining and it was in fair state of preservation.

Mr. Berkey remained at the Martin home all the time the injured man was there and went after the mother, Mrs. Sarah Wolf, and brought her to the home. The grief of the wife, the mother and other members of the family is too pitiful to narrate.

No blame whatever is attached to Mr. Berkey, for it is more than likely, in fact more than possible, that Mr. Wolf had been attacked with a dizzy spell when he rode on the running board and fender of the car, and this caused the fall.

One peculiar incident was the fact that Mrs. Wolf felt a premonition that day that something terrible was to happen. Try as hard as she might she could not dispel the idea, and the tragedy verified her fears.

Mr. Wolf had been identified with the business interests of the community for a number of years and for several years was postmaster. At the time of his death, he was director of the Chamber of Commerce, being recently elected. He was a member of, and a hard worker, in the U.B. Church, a fine man, highly esteemed by everyone.

The funeral is Friday afternoon at the U.B. Church with burial in the Parks Cemetery.

Obituary later.”

If you would like to scroll through microfilms or research a specific topic, visit our research library in the Museum. We are located at 123. N. Michigan St in Plymouth, IN. Our hours are Tuesday to Saturday, 10-4. Call at (574)-936-2306.

Learning to Drive the Hard Way

Learning to Drive the Hard Way

by | May 20, 2026 | Bremen, Visitor Stories & Oral Histories

William Erwin, Jr. and his brother Lewis in Will’s automobile.

Edited by Sue Irwin

The dawn of the automobile age in Marshall County saw an incomplete and primitive road system, many different automobile models from many companies with varying operating systems and no safety features to speak of. Some early cars had tillers instead of steering wheels. There was no driver’s training, indeed, no driver’s licensing. It would be many years before automobiles would overtake wagons and buggies on the roads, but that didn’t stop folks from being curious about how the dad-blamed contraptions worked.

William Erwin, Jr., at age 17, brought some excitement to town when he became the first resident of Bourbon to own an automobile. The local newspaper, the Bourbon News Mirror, printed the following humorous anecdote in April 1902.

“What we have been waiting for has happened. Mr. (William, Sr.) Erwin has tried the automobile belonging to his son Will. The critter stood in the yard one day last week as docile and meek as a little lamb. Steam was up, no one was looking, and Mr. Erwin’s curiosity was aroused. It seemed a most propitious time to take a little whirl.

“In a mule, one can detect by the roll of its eyes whether it harbors any ill will toward he who has the desire to mount, and likewise in a Texas bronco, but if an auto has a green apple pain, and designs against any who desires to ride, it never whimpers, and you only know “where you are at” when the family talk in whispers around your bed, the house is filled with the aroma of liniment and camphor, or the coroner gets out a search warrant for you.

“Mr. Erwin got it. A simple twist of the wrist threw on the power, and in less time than a collar button slips down your back, the pesky critter’s ire was up, and it made for the nearest pine tree and up it started. Bang! it went; then it backed off, made a sidestep to the right, the back wheels slinging the sand like a Kansas cyclone, and started for the tree again. Mr. Erwin wasn’t scared. He was simply getting the gait of the thing and didn’t shut off the steam.

“Boom! An explosion! The tire blew up! Will then appeared and put a stop to the proceedings. Mr. Erwin conquered the thing at least, for it is now in the hospital while he is telling us how it happened.”

The article does not elaborate on how Junior felt about the wreck of his new automobile, but trial and error was most likely the way he learned to drive as well. It was the primary way all new drivers got their training. Sometimes car dealers provided instruction if the car was purchased from one. In 1902, however, there were few dealerships and only in big cities. Buyers went straight to the factory to pick out their auto or ordered it through a catalog at the general store. Delivery of the new automobile was via railroad car.

As more people purchased cars, drove, and had accidents, local and state governments began regulating the operation of the automobile. In Indiana, drivers were required to register their cars and have a license beginning in 1929. This was also the year that driver’s examinations were introduced.

The Marshall County Museum houses the Historic Crossroads Center, a comprehensive exhibit about transportation in Indiana and the various changes that have taken place because of it. The Museum is open from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. Tuesday through Saturday. The interactive model trains operate from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. on Saturdays in the adjacent Train Room.

The Marshall County Museum houses the Historic Crossroads Center, a comprehensive exhibit about transportation in Indiana and the various changes that have taken place because of it. The Museum is open from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. Tuesday through Saturday. The interactive model trains operate from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. on Saturdays in the adjacent Train Room.

One Boy’s Adventure with Tobacco

One Boy’s Adventure with Tobacco

by | May 20, 2026 | General History, Visitor Stories & Oral Histories

Broken fence, image by Jesse Steele, undated.

The following article is taken from “A Twentieth Century History of Marshall County,” written by Daniel McDonald, published in 1908. Copies of this book are available at the MCHS & Museum. I have only lightly edited it.

“In the early days of Marshall County every farmer who used tobacco, and some who did not, raised a small patch every year as regularly as they did lettuce and onions and beets and cabbage and other garden truck. At that time there was very little of what was called “Boughten tobacco” to be had, and what there was, was known as “Kentucky pig-tail.” It was soaked in licorice, was as black as tar, and was altogether villainous stuff. Some of the tobacco raised here then was of fairly good quality, and after having the habit of using it firmly fixed it answered the purpose, and was as good – or more properly, bad – as much of the imported stuff in use nowadays.

It was a dreadful ordeal one had to go through with to accustom himself to the use of tobacco, and it was equally hard to rid himself of the habit after it had been acquired.

The writer remembers vividly as if it was only yesterday his first effort at learning to chew tobacco. It was the home grown weed. Nearly every boy in those days deemed it necessary to use tobacco. The boy who couldn’t chew the stuff and squirt the “ambier” – to use a word coined for the purpose – didn’t amount to a —–!

It was on a summer day. He was resting from the day’s labor in a fence corner in the shade of a tree when the man who was with him asked him to take a chew of tobacco. He concluded it was as good a time as any to begin and bit off a large mouthful and went at it. For a time, all went well, but presently a sickly feeling came over him, and it was not long until he heaved up Jonah to beat the band! Sick! Well! Don’t talk! A sicker child you never saw! He parted with everything from the top of his head to the soles of his feet! He saw all the stars in the heavens above; the aurora borealis quivering in the northern hemisphere and felt several distinct shocks of earthquake! Finally, he managed to get to the house, where his mother almost went beside herself, being sure he had the cholera! The true state of affairs was divulged, and after sassafras and sage tea had been administered and the proper antidotes applied, life began to return, and by the next morning he had fully recovered.

The reader may think that this experience ended his efforts to learn to use the filthy stuff! Not so! The neighboring boys had mastered the art and were squirting tobacco juice with as much gusto as the biggest man in the neighborhood! So, he determined to learn to chew tobacco or die in the attempt. And he did, and after a while the habit became so firmly fixed on his system that when he wanted to quit it he found it was almost impossible to do so. He determined, however, not to be a slave to tobacco or anything else, and long ago quit it entirely, forever and a day.”

The MCHS and Museum is a true “cabinet of curiosities,” containing loads of fascinating artifacts and information. We are open from 10:00 am until 4:00 pm, Tuesday through Saturday. The Museum is located at 123 N. Michigan St. in Plymouth. Call us at 574-936-2306 or visit our website at www.mchistoricalsociety.org.

George Switzer – Plymouth to Paris

George Switzer – Plymouth to Paris

by | May 6, 2026 | Plymouth, Visitor Stories & Oral Histories

1918 Plymouth High School Basketball Team, Switzer on left.

George Switzer was born in Plymouth in 1900. He was a talented artist and at age 16 was chosen to illustrate the book, Centennial History of Indiana, by Judge John Kitch. George went on to graduate as the president of his class and studied psychology at the University of Illinois. He distinguished himself there as president of the arts and psychology fraternities, and as art director of campus publications. His first design business was launched when he successfully bid against Chicago firms for the decorations used in the college dances.

From college, George worked as a Bible salesman, where again, he excelled by doubling the business in 16 months. His desire to work in an artistic way led him to accept a job as an industrial designer. His work in Chicago led to an offer from an advertising firm in New York where he designed everything from envelope stickers to messengers’ uniforms and delivery trucks. Having made his name, Switzer opened his own office in 1929 as a designer and consultant. He subsequently worked for 65 American companies, and shortly opened an office in Paris, France. He designed a variety of things including letterhead, sausage labels and a Rolls-Royce automobile body. Switzer was instrumental in organizing the 1937 Exhibitions on Modern Packaging and Materials show in New York. He also promoted packaging shows in the U.S. and France. He won several awards for his designs internationally as well as stateside.

George passed away in 1940 following surgery for mastoiditis. His funeral was conducted in the Presbyterian church, and he is buried at Oakhill Cemetery. The print obituaries in the Museum’s archive summarize his life well, but it is the extra artifacts in the file that tell the real story. An article from a New York newspaper shares several nuggets about George:

“He still drawls, he still says mebbe for maybe. He might have been a farmer, except for one summer when he was nine years old, he ‘rented a piece of land from grandfather. I hoed and planted and watered all summer. The other kids were playing baseball or swimmin’. I kept careful books and at the end of the summer I had made 37 cents for four month’s work. I never wanted to be a farmer after that…’

“His interests range all over the earth: from re-designing ocean liners ‘so that folks will feel more like they are out on the seas that pirates used to roam over, instead of safe and sound in an apartment hotel…’ From that field, his interests range to ‘working out an art program for high schools…I am experimenting with it back in my hometown sort of…it’s based on a pretty simple idea that sounds sort of screwy when I say it, but here it is: Just teach kids that every place they leave, ought to be made more beautiful for their having been there.’”

 

Christmas Card by George Switzer.

George never forgot his hometown and remained close to his Plymouth family throughout his life. Our archive includes letters to his aunts and an amazing collection of hand-made Christmas cards. His designs are as imaginative and fresh now as they were when created in the 1920s and ‘30s. Each year George created a sophisticated work of art, very much in the art deco style of the day. He used metallic papers and inks, embossed detail, intricate folds and handwritten verse. In these days of digital greetings, these pieces of art are all the more charming.

This is just one file in the Marshall County Museum’s archives, and one more story of a life that made an impact. We are privileged to preserve these items to tell our collective story! Come visit this holiday season. The Museum is open located at 123 N. Michigan St., Plymouth, and open Tuesday – Saturday, 10-4.

Family Searches for Long Lost Nephews

Family Searches for Long Lost Nephews

by | Apr 30, 2026 | Plymouth, Visitor Stories & Oral Histories

Herbert M. Cunningham’s gravesite.

The Plymouth Republican of April 23, 1908 had an interesting article about a Maine family searching for long lost nephews in Indiana. The boys were sent to Indiana on an orphan train. The Orphan Train movement (1853–early 1900s) was a massive social welfare experiment that relocated over 120,000 to 200,000 orphaned, abandoned or homeless children from crowded Eastern cities—primarily New York—to foster homes in the rural Midwest.

About 20 years earlier, the father of the boys, William Morey, died and their mother, Lillie Dean Morey, was in very poor health. Lillie was sent to a sanitorium where she later died. Her brother, D.L. Dean, was unable to care for the boys, having a family of his own, so he placed them in a Boston orphanage who promised to take very good care of the brothers. Before long, the Morey brothers were shipped west on the Orphan Train. The Dean family were not told of their whereabouts.

The Morey brothers, William and Herbert, were both taken in by a Mr. Cunningham in Plymouth, who intended to keep Herbert and find another home for William. In 1908, Cunningham said that William had been shifted from home to home and “had a hard time of it.” At first William made his home with Preacher Clark in Plymouth. He later spent time with Sam Swaysgood, and then John Cook, living west of Plymouth. He returned for a time to Preacher Clark and finally went to Peter Brown in Michigan City.

Dean remained interested in his nephews and as time passed and he prospered, he began to seek information about them and their whereabouts. He found out “in a roundabout way” that William was working for a farmer in Michigan City named Peter Brown. He determined to take a trip to Indiana and look for his missing family. In 1908, the Deans visited Peter Brown in Michigan City. He indicated that William Morey had left his employ two years earlier, and he did not have a new address for him.

While they did not locate William, they did receive a clue about where to find Herbert. Upon visiting him in Plymouth a few days later, they found a young man close to turning 21. Herbert had a good home with the Cunninghams and was satisfied with his present lot. He did not know of the death of his mother, nor that he had an uncle and aunt living until shown a clipping from a LaPorte newspaper.

Herbert Cunningham went on to fight in WWI and was discharged to the Veteran’s Home in Marion, IN, with a diagnosis of Constitutional Psychopathic State. This diagnosis covered a wide range of problems, including shellshock. In 1920, Herbert was living in South Bend with his foster sister.

In 1921 Herbert married Mary Cannon, and they had a son, Rex, in 1922. He was apparently still struggling with mental health issues, as he was sent to Longcliff, later named the Logansport State Hospital, in 1929.  By 1930, Herbert was back at the Veteran’s Home in Marion. At some point he was transferred to the Veteran’s Hospital in Dayton, OH, where he died on September 18, 1969.

    This is just one of the fascinating stories contained in our archives. Our library is available from Tuesday through Saturday from 10:00 AM until 4:00 PM. The Museum is located at 123 N. Michigan St. in Plymouth. Call us at 574-936-2306.

    George E. Thornburg: Lifelong Depot Agent

    George E. Thornburg: Lifelong Depot Agent

    by | Apr 24, 2026 | Burr Oak, LaPaz, Railroad, Visitor Stories & Oral Histories

    Burr Oak Depot, undated.

    The information below comes from the Indianapolis Star Magazine, November 18, 1956, and the Culver Citizen of September 18 and 25, 1957.

    Early Life of George Thornburg

    George Edgar Thornburg was born at Stillwell, IN on April 3, 1891, one of four children of William Henry and Malinda (Kaser) Thornburg.  By the time George was 9 years old, the family was living in the LaPaz area.

    He married Amanda Lodema Strang on May 17, 1910, and they made their home in Burr Oak.  They had five daughters, Opal, Elwyn, Kathryn, Mary Jane and Ramona.  All five daughters grew to adulthood, married and lived in Marshall County.

    A Career In Railroading

    Thornburg went into “railroading” in 1910 and would have a 47-year career.  Since telegraphy was the up and coming thing, he started by watching the telegraph key at the local junction in LaPaz.  After George had mastered the code, he and his cousin rigged a line between their houses and practiced sending messages.

    After a brief interval as a streetcar conductor in South Bend, he came back to the steam locomotives.  ‘There’s something about a railroad,” he stated.  So many people at that time felt the pull of the railroads.

    At the time employees of the railroad worked nine hours, seven days a week.  If the freight loads were heavy, the shift might stretch to 12 hours.  Trains were dispatched by orders telegraphed ahead to each station.  Thornburg would receive the orders, fasten them to a hook at the end of a long pole and hand them up to the engineer.  If the train was not scheduled to stop at the station, he had to move fast, for the train’s speed would not slacken as the locomotive thundered past.  Sometimes the orders involved two engineers, and he would have to get the orders to both.

    Thornburg was employed by the Nickel Plate Railroad as an agent first at Ober, then Hibbard, then Burr Oak.  In 1954 he was transferred to Hibbard again.

    Memorable Days On the Railroad

    In 1917 he said he saw a derailment, “and it was plenty for a lifetime.”  A wreck occurred on August 30 of that year, described in the Bremen Enquirer of September 6, 1917.   An arch bar broke under a car in a long line of cars going about 30 miles an hour.  Fifteen freight cars were smashed to pieces and piled up along the south side of the B & O track near the bridge over the Yellow River a mile and a half west of Bremen.  Oats, sugar, agricultural implements and various freight were all mixed up.  Fortunately, no one was hurt.  It was several days before the wreckage was cleaned up.

    Thornburg did get to meet a celebrity, the well-known opera singer Mme. Schumann-Heink, whose son attended Culver Military Academy.  George said she “had a nice way, pleasant and not a bit put on.”  Tycoons then often travelled by private railroad car, and Thornburg would occasionally be the recipient of some delicious food shared by their chefs.  On occasion a hobo would sneak in for a nap on a bench in the waiting room.

    In the 1950s some Culver Military Academy students still used the Nickel Plate Railway station at the Hibbard depot, which was a flag stop.  He would have to handle the luggage and make sure no items were left behind by the boys.

    George Thornburg's Everyday Duties

    Eventually the telephone and automatic signals replaced the skills of telegraphy and teletyping.  But Thornburg still had to sell tickets and keep up with paperwork for baggage and freight.  He had to receive the mail from trains that did not stop.  He was sometimes helped in this by “a youthful assistant, Bobby Albert.”  Bob Albert would grow up to work for the railroad and as a lifelong train enthusiast, still volunteers at the railroad museum.

    Thornburg also had the regular duties of keeping the station swept, the waiting room benches dusted and the potbellied stove ready for a fire.  A phone call would tell him if the train was on schedule.  If a taxi was requested, he would call a cab company in Culver.  When passengers wanted to board the train, Thornburg would put on his billed railroad cap and step out well ahead of the train to flag for a stop.  He also figured tickets and helped plan trips.  The longest ticket he ever sold was a 13-coupon ticket to Vancouver.  He said he prided himself on being a good consultant and had a flair for scenic routes.

    An important duty for Thornburg was that he had to closely inspect every passing wheel for “hotboxes,” an axle bearing that became excessively hot due to friction.  If one got hot enough to burn out a journal bearing (a plain bearing without rolling elements), or a journal box, which housed the journal bearing, it could cause a wreck.

    A Tragic Ending

    On Monday, September 16, 1957, Thornburg said he called the Culver Citizen with a heavy heart to report bad news.  He had received a telegram: “On and after September 24 all business in the Hibbard and Burr Oak stations will be handled at Knox.  Tuesday, September 23 will be the last day that the Hibbard station will be open to the public.”  This was perhaps the saddest disappointment of his long life of service.

    But he never had to see the closing of the Hibbard station.  A week before it was scheduled to close, he passed away of coronary thrombosis while sitting in a chair in his home at Burr Oak on the morning of September 18, 1957.  Can a person die of a broken heart?  If so, perhaps George Thornburg did. George Thornburg was faithful to his job working for the railroad for 47 years.  He was a true railroad devotee.

    Marshall County’s history is full of great stories about the people and events that shaped our area. The Marshall County Historical Society & Museum offers the opportunity to research and learn about our forebears. We are open from 10:00 until 4:00, Tuesday through Saturday, at 123 N. Michigan St., Plymouth. Call us at 574-936-2306.